


Grey and Black

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Cosette is married, Valjean finds himself withdrawing from everything he loves. Javert owes Valjean his life, and hopes that he might be able to save Valjean's in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey and Black

“How was the wedding?”

Javert watched as Valjean gazed at him quizzically over his tea, as if startled by the question. Javert immediately regretted asking it. Neither of them were easily given to small talk, but it had been nearly an hour since they had spoken. Normally Javert would find the silence companionable, but today he felt a peculiar weight in the room.

Valjean sighed. “It was nice,” he answered quietly. His head dipped back down,taking particular interest in the bottom of his tea cup. He must have felt Javert’s eyes on him, for after a moment he looked up to give Javert a pained smile.

Javert sipped his own tea. “The boy is a dolt,” he offered.

“Cosette loves him,” Valjean said, and the words were spoken with a weight Javert could not immediately describe; it was less an argument than it was a meditation.

Something clicked for Javert, and he furrowed his brow. “Is that what this is about?” He asked, cursing himself for the uncharacteristic tone of concern in his own voice. 

Valjean didn’t respond.

Javert shrugged it off. He was not there to play emotional caregiver for Jean Valjean. He should know Cosette loved him more than she would probably ever love that sorry excuse for a lawyer, but Javert would not enable Valjean’s self-pity by voicing such a thought. He supposed what Valjean was feeling was natural; Valjean had risked everything to raise her and now she was in another man’s care, having no need for Valjean.

Javert stood up and walked over to Valjean. He took Valjean’s hand in his own and pressed it, looking at him fondly. He was never one for words; he knew Valjean was sad to have lost Cosette, but the gesture was all he could manage in terms of consolation. Valjean didn’t return the look and Javert felt a pang. He was not used to the man disregarding his affectionate gestures.

“I suppose I will take my leave,” Javert said awkwardly.

“I think that might be best.”

Javert walked toward the door. When he realized Valjean did not plan to stop him as he usually did when Javert suddenly threatened to leave, he turned around.

“You haven’t lost her,” he blurted out, “I know you think you have, but she is still your daughter. She still loves you, she will always love you.”

“She has no need of me,” Valjean replied quietly. He was not looking at Javert.

“She does,” Javert said emphatically. “She will always need you, regardless of whether or not Marius is in her life.”

“I do not wish to discuss this with you, Javert,” Valjean replied firmly.

Well, fine. Javert had no desire to stick around to hear Valjean’s self-pity; he quit the apartment and headed back to his own rooms. 

 

***

 

It was three weeks later when Javert was visiting Valjean again that he met Toussaint at the door.

“Monsieur, I was wondering if we could speak,” Toussaint stammered. Javert eyed her. They had never really spoken, and Javert wondered what could have happened that would require her to talk to him.

“Yes?” Javert said lamely.

“My sister has fallen ill,” she said in her characteristic stammer. “I should like to visit her, while I still have the chance, but I worry about Monsieur Fauchelevent. He has permitted me to take my leave for as long as I need, but, though I may not be much company, I worry he will fare even worse should he be left alone.”

Javert nodded without intending to. Indeed, Valjean had not yet seemed to have snapped out of the funk he had fallen into after Cosette’s wedding. 

“I thought, maybe, Monsieur Javert could keep Monsieur company while I am away,” Toussaint replied.

“Is my current company not enough?” Javert asked.

“I only meant --” Toussaint stuttered, “Perhaps, and pardon me if I am imposing, Monsieur --”

Javert held up a hand. “You wish for me to move in here? To care for him while you are gone?”

Toussaint didn’t reply but looked at him pleadingly.

Javert sighed and shook his head. “I suppose I am in his debt,” Javert replied. “I will need to gather a few things from my own rooms, however.”

“Yes, of course, Monsieur,” Toussaint replied, “And thank you, I shall be happy for the chance to see my sister.”

Javert nodded politely. “If that will be all then,” he said.

Toussaint nodded.

 

Later that day, after his visit with Valjean, Javert rubbed his temples as he thought about whether or not moving in with Valjean was a wise move. Javert had never lived with another person, not since he left the prison in which he was born. He cared for Valjean and he was confident that Valjean cared for him too. Over the many months since that fateful night at the barricade they had grown close and even shared hugs, kisses, and occasionally a bed.

But this was different. It was one thing to visit a person regularly and quite another altogether to be constantly around them.

But he owed it to Valjean, he reasoned. Valjean had saved him that day at the Seine, and now it was Valjean that needed him. He hadn’t quite recovered since Cosette’s wedding, and though Javert did not want to overstate his importance to the man, he thought perhaps Valjean’s mood would improve with Javert’s company.

Toussaint and Javert had confronted him together about the proposition, and Valjean did not protest.

Javert found himself wondering if that was due to him really wanting Javert there, or just not having the energy to argue.

 

***

 

Toussaint’s sister had not improved. Her letters said as much, at least, and it looked like it may be many months before she was able to return to the apartment in Rue de L’Homme Armé.

Spring was now well underway, though Valjean’s mood had scarcely improved. 

Javert heard the door to the apartment close as Valjean returned from his weekly visit with Cosette. He had not expected Valjean back so early.

Javert peered up from the novel he had been suffering through in Valjean’s absence. “How was your visit?”

It was still awkward for Javert, asking these questions of Valjean. Normally, he would not have cared. He still had no desire for small talk and Valjean had just as little patience for it as he did, but with the way Valjean had been acting lately, Javert thought it might be a good idea to let him know that he cared enough to ask. It still felt unnatural; the words tumbled carelessly from his mouth.

Valjean walked over and leaned down next to Javert, kissing him gently. “She seems happy,” he offered, but Javert noticed again the peculiar weight the words had.

This was usually what Valjean was like when he returned from his visits with Cosette. He had hoped that the spring weather would give him reason to be happy. He found himself wondering what Valjean and Cosette had done together during the first few weeks of Spring before Cosette married.

Valjean sat down in the armchair next to Javert’s and let out a sigh. Javert eyed him. It looked as though Valjean was staring into nothing, his eyes glassy as they fixed themselves on a point on the wall.

“You are being childish,” Javert told him.

Valjean turned to look at him, wordlessly.

“I have scarcely seen you smile in the three months since her wedding. You are miserable when you are away from her, and just as miserable when you see her. Why do this to yourself?” Javert looked at him, as though waiting for an answer. When none came, he continued, “You are not the first father to have his daughter marry, and I am sure other fathers still allow themselves to enjoy life afterward. You have not lost her, Valjean, and if you do it will be your own doing. Do you think your unhappiness is any easier for her to bear than it is for you?”

“Javert,” Valjean warned. 

“You are being absurd. Do you intend to spend the rest of your life in this level of misery? Is that what I have signed up for, living with someone who may as well be dead? Have it done with, Valjean. It has been three months. Certainly if her marriage were to cause the world to end, it would have happened already.” He paused. “You lived before you met Cosette; you were not this reserved in Montreuil-sur-Mer, I remember. You lived before her and you will live after. All things considered, you two did not even live together for very long, so certainly,”

Valjean cut him off with a glare. Clearly Javert had said the wrong thing.

“Stop talking,” Valjean said after a moment, though Javert had already gone silent. “You have no idea what it is like to lose anyone. Do not try to understand.”

Javert stood up. “You are doing this to yourself,” he repeated quietly, then left to his own bedchamber. 

If Valjean was going to resist his attempts to help, then so be it. Javert was there to keep Valjean company and to assist with the housework, a task demeaning enough that Valjean should have been happy to have him there at all. 

He quite simply did not understand why Valjean looked so angry. Nothing he had said had been untrue; many people had gone through exactly what Valjean was dealing with currently, and surely not all of them spent months in mourning. 

Javert cared about him, but what was the point when Valjean was all but unresponsive whenever they were together? It was hard to adjust to living with another person, which Javert never had, even if Valjean valued solitude as much as Javert. Having to share living quarters with someone as perpetually miserable as Valjean was beginning to take its toll on him.

Javert lay down on his bed and exhaled. Perhaps he really shouldn’t have said anything; Valjean was right in that it was hardly his place to chide him about how he was handling the loss of his daughter. Or rather, perceived loss. Self-inflicted loss. Perhaps Javert was right after all, though Valjean would never see it that way, and would likely be even more miserable until Javert either apologized or admitted he was wrong.

And was that not the reason Javert had come? To ensure Valjean was kept company, to aid him in this transition to living alone? Moreover, the man had saved his life.

Javert reasoned he could swallow his pride just once, for he owed this, at least, to Valjean.

He simply stared at the ceiling for a while, wondering how long Valjean would need to cool off. When he figured enough time had passed, he got up and left the room, taking a deep breath to brace himself.

Valjean was sitting at the kitchen table, his mug of tea from earlier still in front of him and his head in his hands. Javert sat down across from him. Valjean did not look up.

“Valjean,” Javert said. Still he didn’t move. “Valjean, look at me.”

Valjean looked up, slowly. It looked to Javert as if he had aged five years since they last spoke.

“I know it must be hard to lose Cosette in this way,” he started. Javert winced, finding this almost as difficult as confessing to Madeleine back in Montreuil. That, too, had been necessary out of his duty to this man. “Perhaps I should be more respectful of that,” he finished lamely.

Valjean just kept looking at him, still hunched forward with his elbows on the table.

“I,” Javert faltered. He looked down at the table between them, and muttered, “care for you.”

He felt himself flush and immediately regretted saying it. Surely this was not a necessary part of him living with Valjean. He certainly did care for him, but was that not clear enough through his agreement to living here with Valjean? Through their kisses, or, though infrequent, their coupling? Javert could have kicked himself for saying it and could have kicked Valjean for making him feel it necessary. He kept his eyes fixed on the table.

One of Valjean’s hands found his own and pressed it. Javert looked up.

“I care for you too,” Valjean replied quietly. He forced a smile that was almost more painful for Javert to see than his melancholy had been. Valjean looked around the apartment. “Perhaps I need fresh air,” he suggested. “Will you take a walk with me?”

Javert nodded.

 

***

 

He had been making a point to spend more time around Valjean, and slowly, slowly, the affectionate words and gestures had come more naturally to him. By late summer, Javert was just as likely to sleep in his own bed as he was in Valjean’s. 

Toussaint’s sister had died, leaving her children without someone to care for them. Valjean told Javert that she had been working for him and Cosette for long enough, and kept their privacy well enough, that she deserved to leave in order to care for her family. Valjean regularly sent her money, saying it was long overdue for the service she had done Valjean. Javert did not know how much he was sending, but he would have guessed it was substantially more than she would have needed.

He had meant to protest, but as he remembered how Valjean felt about failing to care for his own sister’s children, he thought it might be better to just let Valjean do with his money as he will.

The warmer weather seemed to be having a positive effect on both Valjean and Javert. Though Valjean still bristled when Cosette was brought up and frequently returned from his visits with her particularly melancholy, things seemed to have been improving.

Javert pondered how much credit he could claim for Valjean’s improved mood as he stared blankly at the words in the latest novel Valjean had coerced Javert into reading. Valjean loved reading, though Javert never understood the appeal. However, without his job, and with the two men leading Spartan enough lifestyles that the apartment remained more or less clean throughout the day, there was little else to do while Valjean was absent.

He had estimated it would still be over an hour before Valjean returned, so he jumped when he heard the door to the apartment open behind him.

He stood up and turned around. “Valjean?”

Valjean looked at him sadly, as if too upset to find words.

“Come sit,” Javert offered.

Valjean obliged, sinking into an armchair near the one where Javert had been reading.

Javert sat back down too, and gave Valjean a few moments in case he wished to start talking. When he did not, Javert looked at him. “Did something happen with Cosette?”

“I spoke with Marius,” Valjean admitted. “He thinks it would be best if Cosette doesn’t see me anymore.”

Javert furrowed his brow. “And what right does he have to think that?”

“He’s right, Javert,” Valjean sighed, “She has no need of me.”

“You saved his life,” Javert argued.

“She still wishes to see me,” Valjean explained, “At least for now. I agree with Marius; however,”

“However, you have never denied Cosette anything,” Javert finished for him.

Valjean smiled weakly. “No, I suppose I have not.”

“You should see her,” Javert said emphatically. “Marius Pontmercy is a ninny, and I know you care for Cosette, but I fear for their children with his level of idiocy.”

Valjean smiled even more brightly now, and even Javert felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He was happy he had gotten to the point with Valjean where he could effectively raise his mood when he returned from these trips with Cosette. 

So the following week, after another conspicuously short visit with Cosette, Javert began to worry. Following their conversation, Javert had trusted Valjean to continue to see Cosette regardless of what Marius had said. Valjean’s defeated expression upon his return, however, spoke otherwise.

The second week after the incident with Marius, Javert decided to tail Valjean.

Perhaps it was due to being out of work for over a year. Books had never kept his interest the way they kept Valjean's, and he had little else to do throughout the day. He rationalized that perhaps, due to his career, he gave in too easily to suspicion. Regardless, soon after Valjean left, Javert followed.

Valjean was, in fact, walking toward the Pontmercy residence. Javert kept a distance, trying to stay out of Valjean's line of sight even if Valjean were to turn around. He watched as Valjean turned the street and approached Marius and Cosette's home, and kicked himself for failing to trust him.

Javert was about to turn back when he noticed Valjean had not entered the house; rather, he had begun walking back toward where Javert was standing.

Javert ducked into the nearest alley, hoping Valjean would not notice him. Valjean continued walking until he found a bench and sat down, head cradled in his hands. Javert stared at him. So he hadn't, after all, been visiting Cosette.

Javert turned back toward Rue de l'Homme Armé, unsure if he was more content or upset about his suspicions being correct.

 

***

 

This pattern continued until the end of summer. Valjean would leave, saying he was visiting Cosette, but would never actually visit her. Every few weeks, Javert would follow him, in case Valjean began seeing her again. He hadn't said anything to Valjean about it, unsure of how he should approach the situation, or even if it would be appropriate.

He tried to make his time with Valjean more pleasant, hoping his company would somewhat make up for the loss of Cosette's. 

Javert wrapped his arms around Valjean's waist one morning, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. He was more comfortable with gestures like these now, and certainly they were easier than finding words to describe how he felt. Valjean, too, found it easier to be physically than verbally affectionate. That morning, however, Valjean pulled himself from Javert's grasp.

"Is something wrong?" Javert asked worriedly.

"I feel ill," Valjean explained, "Though I'm certain it's nothing."

Javert have him a puzzled look but decided not to dwell on it. He had spent too long being skeptical of this man, and never had it done him any good. 

Later that night, as Valjean was about to retire, Javert stood up to join him.

"I think I should like to sleep alone tonight," Valjean said.

Javert eyed him, and then gave a small shrug. "If you're certain.” 

Valjean forced a small smile. "Goodnight, Javert."

Javert tried to return the smile before leaving to his own bedchamber. He could not remember the last time he had slept in it; the bed felt empty and cold without Valjean next to him, and Javert found it difficult to sleep.

He tried to remember that both Valjean and himself were, by nature, solitary people; after Valjean had left Toulon, he had lived alone until he began to care for Cosette, and Javert had always lived alone. Regardless of how close they became or how much time they spent in each other's presence, each would occasionally need their own space.

It didn't hurt, Javert told himself. Valjean was being reasonable, Javert was being too demanding. He shouldn't expect Valjean's company constantly.

Then again, it seemed as though Valjean had been withdrawing from him. Javert let out a sigh as he remembered the affectionate gestures Valjean had been pulling away from as of late. When Javert had first moved in, it was not uncommon for them to wake up with their limbs tangled together, one of their arms strewn across the other's chest. Lately, Javert awoke to find Valjean on the opposite end of the small bed. 

Javert tried to tell himself it wasn't affecting him, but part of him knew that Valjean's distance was wearing him down. Without his job, Valjean was the only thing in Javert's life he considered important. Javert shuddered to think what might become of him if Valjean should no longer wish to be around him. It hurt to think he was any less important to Valjean than Valjean was to him.

He wondered if it might be due to Cosette's disappearance from Valjean's life. Javert had hoped he would be enough to assuage Valjean's loneliness; he knew he would never replace her, but perhaps he might be enough company to keep Valjean content between their visits. Now that Valjean was not visiting her at all, it seemed Javert was far from enough for him. As much as Valjean meant to him, he was not the only person in Valjean's life, and Valjean would never care for him the way he cared for Cosette.

He resolved to speak to Valjean in the morning about the situation with Cosette.

 

***

 

They were sitting down to dinner when Javert broached the topic.

"I know you haven't been visiting Cosette," he said slowly.

Valjean looked at him, wide-eyed.

"You're being foolish," Javert continued, "You need to be around her, you love her and she loves you."

"I do not wish to speak of it," Valjean interrupted.

"Unfortunately, your stubbornness has made that irrelevant," Javert argued, "Without her you've even withdrawn from me. That makes your relationship with her my concern, and as such, I will discuss it with you as much as I wish."

"Javert,"

Javert closed his eyes, if only to spare himself the agonized look on Valjean's face. "You need to talk to her. Damn what that idiot lawyer says about any of it; you saved his life and you gave him your daughter. He should have no say in the matter. He owes you, and it is not just of him to deprive you of her."

Valjean stood up suddenly from the table. "Do not get involved with this," he said sternly.

"I am already involved," Javert argued. He remained sitting.

"It does not concern you."

"I have already explained that it has!" Javert nearly shouted, exasperated. "You are being foolish, do you not see that? You are allowing yourself to drown in your own pathetic sea of self-pity and loss, loss of a person who is not even dead! Your bereavement is a joke. Go and see her, and perhaps then you will stop this foolishness. If I am to spend the rest of my days with someone who is all but unresponsive to me, I'm no longer interested. If I wanted company like yours has been, I would consider keeping a dead houseplant."

Javert looked up from where he was sitting at Valjean, whose fists were clenched and trembling at his sides. He appeared as though he wished to begin shouting and was only barely able to contain himself.

“Leave it be,” Valjean implored.

“I am a part of your life, Valjean,” Javert reasoned. “You dragged me from that river, saved me from Hell, and forced me to stay on this accursed planet. You had already stolen my job from me, had already stolen my life, and then you stole my death. I owe you my life twice over; once at the barricade, once at the river. I am here because of you, Valjean. You’re all I have. And I have trusted you, you who lied to me for five years in Montreuil-sur-Mer, you who would not give me the dignity of a heroic death. I have given myself to you and trusted you, after you have done nothing but steal from me, and now you are robbing me of yourself. Tell me, what of this is just?”

Javert hadn’t intended to sound so needy or insecure, and it only intensified his frustration. He looked at Valjean, who was struggling for something to say.

“I need air,” Javert told him, shaking his head. He stood up from the table and walked toward the door, grabbing his greatcoat.

Valjean made a noise like he intended to protest, but Javert did not remain in the apartment long enough to hear it.

 

***

 

Javert quit the apartment and began walking through the city. The sun was just beginning to set, the cool breeze reminding Javert that autumn was fast approaching. He walked quickly, though without any particular destination in mind. He kept his head low, eyes on the cobblestone below him. He tried not to think about Valjean, but what else was there?

What else had there ever been?

The man had been a plague since Montreuil-sur-Mer. Sure, Javert had heard Valjean had broken parole, but that was hardly uncommon for those that left Toulon. Beginning in Montreuil, however, Valjean had been a constant presence in Javert’s life. Despite all that he had managed to do in Paris before meeting Valjean at the barricade, the thought of him never truly left his mind. He had outsmarted Javert, had humiliated him; Javert belonged as much to him then as he did now.

Javert stopped abruptly, noticing the sun had completely set and he was standing before Pont-au-Change. He rubbed his temples, then stepped firmly onto the bridge, feeling his pulse pound in his throat. He had avoided this bridge since that night over a year ago.

He stopped at its midpoint and looked down over the edge. He tried to summon some self-destructive instinct as though it might protect him from his thoughts about Valjean, but none came. No, he wouldn’t -- that would be foolish.

Javert sighed and leaned forward, resting his arms against the parapet and peering down. This was where he had fallen from, and if Javert strained his eyes, he could make out the embankment on which Valjean had pulled Javert. 

What had it been like for Valjean, watching a man take his own life?

Was it easier when it was a quick and clean thing, as Javert’s would have been? Or is it better to have that person for longer, but to watch them slowly isolate themselves, removing themselves from everything that once brought them joy, a slow and drawn out spiritual death?

Javert bristled at the thought of that last word. Death. Perhaps Javert was being dramatic, but was that not what Valjean was doing to himself? He had seen the man age ten years in the past six months. Valjean’s warmth and enthusiasm for life had left him completely. 

He thought of what it might mean to lose Valjean again and wondered if that was how Valjean felt about Cosette. He could never quite understand how it felt to lose a child, even if that child was never truly his. Valjean needed Cosette, and without her he was suffering, losing his will to do anything beyond merely exist. And who could know how long even that would last? But as much as Valjean needed Cosette, Javert needed Valjean.

He wondered if Valjean understood that.

Javert let his head sink into his hands, clutching at his hair. He was being unfair. Valjean needed somebody right now, and Javert was being selfish. Surely the best way to help Valjean through this was not by arguing with him and taking off in the middle of the night to this damned bridge. He owed at least that much to the man; Valjean had saved his life, and maybe it was finally time to properly repay that favour.

After one last look at the river below him, Javert stood up straight and began the walk back to the apartment at Rue de l’Homme Armé. He had a duty to Valjean, and even if he did not, Valjean deserved someone’s love and affection. Perhaps if Javert was a good enough partner, affectionate enough, he could replace a little bit of what Cosette had meant to him. Perhaps were it another in Javert’s place, someone whose endearments fell easier from their lips, someone less guarded than Javert, Valjean would be okay. And Javert owed that to Valjean, at the very least.

He resigned himself to do a better job; surely at least part of this was his own failing. He would redouble his efforts to be kind and loving to Valjean and be patient with him when it came to matters surrounding Cosette, even if it meant clenching his fists until his nails dug uncomfortably into his palms, or biting his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

It must have been about midnight by the time he arrived back at Valjean’s apartment. He unlocked the door gently and traipsed down the hallway to his own room, where he changed into a simple nightshirt. He would join Valjean in bed tonight; he would apologize for his earlier actions, apologize for leaving. He would sleep beside him and they would wake up with their legs entwined, as they used to. He would be what Valjean needed him to be, because Javert owed Valjean his life.

Still, Javert hesitated outside Valjean’s door, and knocked quietly before entering. Valjean gave no answer, but when Javert slowly opened the door, he noticed Valjean was still awake.

“I’m sorry,” Javert managed. He took a few steps toward the bed.

Valjean held up a hand and shook his head; Javert could only just make it out in the darkness. “Not tonight, Javert.”

Javert persisted regardless. “Valjean,” he started, “I said I was sorry. Please. Let us sleep together, like we did --”

“Leave me,” Valjean said firmly. “I will not ask you again, Javert.”

Javert gave Valjean a saddened, defeated look he knew Valjean was probably unable to see in the low light. Without protest, he returned to his own bedchamber. For the second consecutive night, Javert barely slept.

 

***

 

By late autumn, Javert could scarcely remember the last time he and Valjean had shared so much as a kiss. Javert tried desperately to brighten something inside Valjean, to bring back the warmth that had followed him for so long, but it was in vain. Valjean was not even pretending to visit Cosette anymore, and Javert had given up on trying to convince him otherwise.

Javert had not stopped caring for Valjean; he had simply lost the will to try to make him happy. Valjean was slowly wasting away, and Javert was going right along with him.

“You’ve barely eaten anything,” Javert accused one night over dinner.

“Not hungry,” Valjean grumbled. Lately it seemed to Javert as if Valjean was trying to utter as few words as possible.

“You didn’t eat at all earlier today,” Javert continued, “You must eat something.”

Valjean stood from the table with his dishes and carried them back toward the kitchen.

Javert did not even try to follow.

 

***

 

Several days later, Valjean and Javert were sitting together reading, as they did most mornings. Valjean had stopped recommending books for Javert, so Javert began reading ones he’d already read. The predictability and foreknowledge was a rare comfort.

He looked over to Valjean and found him seemingly asleep in his armchair.

“Valjean,” Javert tried, looking worriedly at him.

He was not snoring as he often did when he dozed off while reading. Javert got up from his chair and placed a hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “Valjean, wake up. Valjean.”

Valjean slowly opened his eyes and regarded Javert quizzically. His eyes seemed unable to open more than halfway, and a dazed smile fell onto Valjean’s face. “Good morning,” Valjean tried.

Javert gave him an odd look and pressed the back of his hand to Valjean’s forehead. “You’re feverish.”

“I am fine,” Valjean insisted.

“You are not,” Javert said. “You should be in bed.”

“Then I shall go to bed.”

Valjean made to stand up, but almost immediately fell back into the armchair. Javert grabbed for him, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“I do not need,” Valjean protested, before almost falling again; Javert kept him upright.

Javert wrapped one of Valjean’s large arms around his own shoulders and helped him to his bed.

“This is what happens when you refuse food,” Javert admonished.

Valjean made no reply.

“I am going to go for some soup and bread, and you will eat them,” Javert told him. He, once again, left the room before Valjean could protest.

 

***

 

“You’re getting worse.”

Valjean did not even open his eyes, and Javert pulled his hand back from Valjean’s forehead. He had been bedridden for a week.

“Is this because of Cosette?” Javert asked quietly.

Valjean shook his head weakly. Javert had never seen Valjean in such a state; his hair was damp with sweat, his face looked gaunt and lifeless. 

Javert sunk to his knees next to Valjean’s bed and grasped one of Valjean’s hands in his own. He squeezed it, but Valjean did not press back.

“Please get better,” Javert whispered. 

Valjean said nothing, but Javert thought he felt Valjean squeeze his hand, just barely strong enough to feel.

“Please, Valjean,” Javert begged, “Please. I need you, without you I -- Valjean, stop this. I need you, you cannot -- Stop. Stop this. I demand it. I still need you. I don’t know what will become of me should you --”

He could not bring himself to say the word.

Javert’s breathing became ragged, and he made a fist with his free hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, sitting back on his heels.

“Don’t do this,” he continued. His voice was broken and raspy. “You saved my life, you cared for me, you showed me -- Valjean, please. Do not leave me, you cannot. You cannot save my life and then leave. I need you. How else must I tell you that? What else will make you stop this? This has to be a joke, you’re Jean Valjean, you survived nearly twenty years in the galleys and eluded me for nearly twenty years after that. This cannot be it, you cannot leave me. Valjean, I need you. Valjean, I love you.”

Despite himself, a few tears slip through Javert’s eyelids, tickling as they slid down his face. 

“Javert,” Valjean said weakly. Javert’s head shot up, and he rose up on his knees.

“Yes?” 

“Tell Cosette I,” he tried.

Javert stood up suddenly, letting go of Valjean’s hand.

“One hour,” Javert told him, “Give me one hour. This time it is me asking for more time. I beg you, Valjean, just one more hour.”

Valjean just barely managed a weak smile, and Javert left the room. He grabbed his greatcoat and left the apartment.

 

***

 

“I need to speak with Monsieur et Madame Pontmercy,” Javert told their housekeeper when she answered the door.

“And who should I say,” she started.

“It is regarding Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Javert interrupted.

The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “Then come in, Monsieur.”

Javert followed her into the large house; Javert had not imagined it to be this nice. She sat him down in a well-decorated living room.

“Would Monsieur care for --”

“It is urgent,” Javert said curtly.

She hurried from the room, and returned only a moment later with Cosette and Marius.

“Monsieur Javert?” Cosette asked carefully. Marius’s eyes were wide as he stared at him.

Marius turned to Cosette. “How do you know this man?” He demanded before turning back to Javert, “How are you --”

“He is a friend of my father’s,” Cosette explained, “He fell ill the same night you did, and he stayed with us while he recovered. It was before you woke up.”

“Your father,” Marius stammered. “Your father did not -- they are not friends, Cosette, your father killed this man!” He turned back to Javert, who silenced him with a glare.

“Sit down,” Javert ordered.

“Killed?” Cosette repeated, confused and wary.

“He clearly did not kill me,” Javert said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

“He’s a criminal,” Marius all but shouted, “He tried to kill you, then, at the barricade! I remember it, I remember he came and Enjolras let him. Why else would he have been there that night? He tried to kill you, he robbed that man, that Monsieur Madeleine,”

Javert cut him off. “What on Earth are you speaking about, boy?”

“Papa gave us some money,” Cosette explained quietly. “It was in the name of Monsieur Madeleine. Marius said he was a wealthy business owner and mayor of a town north of here.”

“Montreuil-sur-Mer,” Javert said. “Your father did not rob that man, Cosette, your father was that man. He owned a factory that produced rosaries and earned his wealth that way, under the name Madeleine. Surely you have not been living here this entire time thinking his wealth was ill-gotten?”

“Papa did not,” Cosette tried, “Then he?”

“And he did not try to kill me,” Javert continued, “But rather saved me from dying at the hands of your friends. Later that night, after he saved your own life,” and he glared at Marius, “I might add.”

“Saved my life?” Marius asked quietly.

“Yes, saved your,” Javert hesitated. “Did he not -- of course he did not. How else did you think you were brought home from the barricade? An angel? He carried you through the sewer and brought you here. I was with him.”

Cosette and Marius stared at Javert, then looked at each other.

“Cosette,” Marius tried. “Cosette, I am so sorry, your father --”

“I did not know either,” Cosette said quietly.

“Where is he?” Marius demanded.

“He is at home, and he is very ill.”

“At home?” Cosette asked. “When did he return?”

Javert gave her a look. “Return?”

“I went to visit, but every time, the landlady said he had left on a trip,” Cosette said quietly.

Javert closed his eyes and exhaled. “No, he never left. But he is ill, and I fear that if we do not leave soon,” Javert let his voice trail off.

Cosette stood up suddenly. “Then we will go! Right, Marius?”

Marius stared at her. “Of course,” he managed. His expression was still stunned, as though he could barely find even those words.

They took a carriage to Valjean’s apartment. Cosette was weeping softly while Marius fisted his hands in his own hair, quietly repeating “What have I done?” under his breath. Javert sat with his fists clenched, hoping Valjean had honoured his wish for more time.

The carriage had barely stopped before Cosette stepped out of it, Marius close behind her. Javert paid the driver and rushed in after them.

Cosette was already at her father’s bedside when Javert entered; Marius was leaning against the door frame, as if he was unsure about whether or not he should enter the room at all. Javert saw the guilt that lined his face and almost felt bad for him. 

Cosette had Valjean’s hand clasped in hers, as Javert had only an hour previous. Valjean had managed to sit up in his bed, his back leaning against the headboard. 

“Papa,” Cosette said, barely distinguishable through her tears, “Papa, Monsieur Javert told us what you did, how you saved Marius, oh, Papa!”

Valjean tried to summon a weak smile for her, then turned toward Marius.

“I am so sorry, Monsieur,” Marius pleaded. He approached the bedside. “I did not know, Monsieur, I should never have tried to keep Cosette from you, I--”

Valjean shook his head and Marius fell silent. “Do you forgive me?” he asked weakly to both Marius and Cosette.

“Forgive you!” Cosette cried. 

“You are the one who has been wronged, Monsieur,” Marius told him. He kneeled down beside Cosette, and Valjean took Marius’s hand in his empty one.

“Papa, you cannot -- you must not --” Cosette stammered. “Not like this, Papa! You will recover, certainly, you have been ill before.” 

Valjean shook his head. He separated his hand from Cosette’s to grab a letter Javert had not noticed sitting on his nightstand.

“This is for you, Cosette,” he said, gently pressing it to her hand. “Read it when I am -- after I am gone. You deserve the truth, Cosette, and I am sorry I could not give it to you sooner. But please know I have always loved you, and your mother loved you very much as well.”

Cosette simply continued crying, shaking her head.

“Javert,” Valjean wheezed. He nodded toward his bed, and Javert sat gingerly on the edge, near Valjean’s knees. Valjean took his hand from Marius’s and pressed Javert’s hand.

“No,” Javert said simply. “You mustn’t, not right now.”

“Please, Papa,” Cosette agreed.

“It seems I will always be asking for more time,” Valjean said, and the corners of his mouth twitched. His breath was becoming even more ragged. “It is better it should be this way, surrounded by the people I love.”

Cosette and Marius squeezed one of Valjean’s hands while Javert pressed a gentle kiss to the other. Javert squeezed his eyes shut, opening them only when the volume of Cosette’s cries had intensified.

Valjean’s head had fallen forward, his chin resting on his chest. 

Javert pressed his thumb to Valjean’s wrist and felt no pulse.

 

***

 

Valjean’s funeral was a quiet affair several days later. Javert had not wanted to attend at all, but Cosette and Marius insisted. He obliged though he said nothing, not trusting himself to open his mouth. 

Afterward, he returned to Valjean’s apartment, unsure of what else to do. He had no place else to go; his old room had been rented out after he had not returned for over six months. It was too painful to remain in that apartment, that apartment that seemed cold and empty without Valjean.

He began to pack his things and found himself unsure of what could be considered his and what he should leave for Cosette as Valjean’s personal belongings; he had not noticed his life becoming so entwined with Valjean’s. 

When he finished packing, he quit the apartment, empty handed.

The sun was bright and the air unseasonably warm. How the world could be so pleasant on a day such as this was beyond Javert’s understanding. It had been several hours since he had left Valjean’s grave; surely everyone would have left by now.

He stopped at a florist’s to purchase flowers, but after staring absently at different bouquets for several minutes, decided against it. He walked from the shop and toward the cemetery.

Javert was barely conscious of him making his way to Valjean’s grave. When he arrived before the simple gravestone with the earth still fresh before it, he fell to his knees, having little compunction about dirtying his trousers.

“What am I supposed to do now, Valjean?” Javert asked quietly, not minding the tear that slipped from his eye. “You are the only reason I am still here at all. You risked your life and your freedom when you met me at the barricade, and again when you followed me into the Seine. You never gave up on me, even when I had given up on myself. I owe my life to you, Valjean, but what am I to do with it now? You told me life was a gift from God when you dragged me ashore. Am I supposed to still believe that?

“My life was saved for me before being taken away less than two years later. I need you, Valjean; what else do I have? You are the only person who has ever loved me, and the only person I have ever loved. I could never repay you for what you have given me over the last year. You gave me back my life, but I did not deserve it then and I do not deserve it now. I should value every gift you have given me, but, after all you have done for me, I do not think --” Javert faltered. “I cannot go on without you.”

He stood up, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand.

“I am sorry for everything, Valjean.”

He turned from Valjean’s grave, as he had turned from Valjean’s apartment nearly a year and a half before. He walked from the cemetery without any precise destination in mind, letting his feet take him where his subconscious willed.

This time, Valjean would not be there to save him.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa. Okay. So I've never cared so much about a single thing I've written. 
> 
> Beta'd partially by the lovely Mel and Tammy, thanks so much for all of your input!
> 
> The inspiration for this fic and the title actually come from [this ridiculous mash-up](http://youtube.com/watch?v=ifDkX51lVmo) of Dr. Dre, Eminem and Skylar Gray's "I Need a Doctor" and the song "Flare" from Homestuck. 
> 
> Concrit is always welcome!


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